


Amazing Grace

by SpacedOut



Series: Amazing Grace [1]
Category: Sherlock - Fandom, johnlock - Fandom
Genre: 3 years later, Angst, Established Relationship, M/M, Sad, attempted suicide, post reichebach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-09
Updated: 2013-11-19
Packaged: 2017-12-31 22:48:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1037292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpacedOut/pseuds/SpacedOut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John had been through all of stages of grief except for one: Acceptance</p><p> </p><p>Warning: Attempted suicide. Language.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Amazing Grace

**Author's Note:**

> I was going to make this into a poem but I'm not the best at making things rhyme so here's a drabble/oneshot instead.

John Watson had remembered reading somewhere that there were 5 stages of grieving over the loss of a loved one. 

Denial. 

Anger.

Bargaining.

Depression.

Acceptance. 

I guess he had gotten lost somewhere between anger, bargaining, and depression. John had admitted to being in denial at one point, yes. 

Months after Sherlock died he would still wake up early every morning and set the coffee maker to two cups. He would take out two coffee mugs and set them on the counter and go about his business looking for the oatmeal that Sherlock must have thrown out to make more room for his ludicrous experiments. It was only when the coffee was done brewing that he would realize what he had done...

_Crash._

He had lost nearly a dozen coffee cups and had chipped most of paint off of the kitchen wall by the end of his first year without Sherlock.

John had decided long ago that the stage of acceptance was never something that he could overcome, mainly because he could not bring himself to accept something that he did not understand. 

_Why did Sherlock do this? He didn’t care what others thought about him. It was me who cared about his reputation, not him. Why did he care? Why did he do this to himself? Why did he do this to me?_

Questions like that kept John up all night long and if it wasn’t keeping him awake, it was tormenting him in his sleep.

John always knew he was a bit self destructive when it came to dealing with his own inner struggles, he joined the army for fuck’s sake, but he never knew how serious it was until he found himself standing on top of the roof of St. Barts.

It was a cloudy day when Sherlock Holmes jumped to his death three years ago.

Now John Watson looked up at the sky. It was beautiful. The sun was shining and the sky was blue, so blue it looked unrealistic... like the color of Sherlock’s eyes _no fuck stop._

“He was just my flatmate,” John laughed to himself as walked closer to the ledge.

He knew the words that fell from his mouth was a complete and utter lie. John wouldn’t be at the scene of Sherlock’s death if he considered him just a flatmate.

_No, no. Sherlock was more than that. He was my best friend. No, no more than that. He was my_

The wind scraped alongside St. Bart’s rooftop like a funeral melody.

**Amazing Grace! How sweet the sound.**

Every footstep John took toward the edge of the roof was his note because “That’s what people do, isn’t it? Leave a note.” 

**That saved a wretch like me!**

John’s heart began to race. He never did like heights. Back in primary school he remembered going on a field trip to a carnival that offered hot air balloon rides for only three pounds. 

A girl John had liked at the time begged him to go on it with her. Once the pilot pulled the rope of the balloon, the hot air balloon lifted off the ground. The sound of the burner heating the air mixed with absence of Earth beneath his feet made him panic. 

Sherlock had always kept him grounded.

John reached for the ledge. His hand met with the cold cement. It surprised his senses, making his fingers curl in on themselves, nails dragging along the stony ledge like a mosquito bite itching to be scratched. 

**I once was lost.**

He dared himself to look over the ledge. _So this is how it must have felt,_ John thought as he watched the hustle and bustle of London beneath him.

John smiled. Surprisingly, he wasn’t sad. He didn’t feel any pain. If anything, he felt like he was in control. He felt like a God as he watched the people below him continue on with their lives as if their loved ones are never going to die. As if they are never going to die.

**But now, am found.**

_Sherlock, how did you feel when you stood up here? How did you feel when you saw me standing down there? When I pleaded for you not to go? Did you feel like God? FUCK YOU._

Tears filled John’s eyes.

_How did it feel when you took that last step? Did you have any regrets? Did you... Did you think about me? Sherlock? Fuck._

John dropped his cane onto the rooftop. _Wont be needed that where I’m headed, will I Sherlock?_

John climbed onto the ledge. There was just enough room to plant his feet comfortably. His toes loomed over the edge like he was standing on air. 

**Was blind, but now, I see.**

John closed his eyes.

“How did it feel when you hit the pavement? Did it hurt?” John asked the wind.

John opened his eyes and took one final breath. The feeling of control left him as soon as the last bit of breath left his lungs. Now he just felt empty.

He raised his right hand in salut just as he did at Sherlock’s grave. 

The door to the roof slammed open.

“Goodbye Sherlock.”

“JOHN WAIT... PLEASE!”


	2. How Sweet the Sound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *I've decided to make this into a series yay!*
> 
> John woke up in his flat to find an unexpected visiter.
> 
> Warning: Talk of suicide. Language.
> 
> Note: I stole a line from Arthur Canon Doyle (aka the creator of Sherlock Holmes). 10 points for Gryffindor if you know which one it is!

John woke up on the red velvet couch of 221B Baker Street later that evening.

Since Sherlock had passed, John kept the flat exactly how it was when he and the world’s only consulting detective were still living together: case boxes lying around the front room, papers scattered all around the computer desk, test tubes and bunsen burners on the dining table... even Billy the skull was still sitting on the mantle above the fireplace. 

John would been ashamed for leaving the flat like that for three long years, but he just did not have the strength in himself to change anything. Every paper, every test tube was put in their place by Sherlock. It felt wrong to move it. It felt like John was giving up, moving on, and accepting the death of his best friend. He hated himself for not being strong enough.

_Don’t. Be. Dead. Sherlock, would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop this._

John could hear steady breathing coming from a few feet away. Someone was in the flat with him.

John opened his eyes to see a tall, malnourished man sitting across from him in his armchair wearing a tight purple button up with the long sleeves rolled to his elbows. Curly brown hair fell across his forehead. He had the most blue eyes John had ever seen... they almost looked unrealistic... they almost looked like...

“Sherlock?”

“John.”

Silence filled the flat, drowning out every sound within a million mile radius. It felt like John was lying next to the edge of a black hole that had engulfed the entire universe and all that was left was space between he and Sherlock. Every word that was left unsaid over the passed 3 years lingered in the air like the ghost of what could’ve been. John could feel the words surrounding his head, clouding his thoughts.

John sat up on the couch and fixed his shirt, hands sliding down his beige sweater and smoothing the ruffled surface. He finally got the courage to look up at the ghost sitting in front of him. Was it a ghost? Was he hallucinating?

Sherlock’s eyes hadn’t left John’s.

Sherlock held a cane in his hand, twisting the base of it with both hands. _Nerves._

Another minute of silence passed before Sherlock finally handed the cane to John, “You dropped this.”

John took the cane from Sherlock slowly, disbelief filling his eyes. The memory of his actions from earlier that day sprang back into his memory.

He had almost killed himself.

John closed his eyes as he remembered standing on the ledge of St. Barts rooftop, the place where Sherlock had “supposedly” died three years prior. 

John almost jumped. He almost did it.

His cane hit the rooftop with a thud. _Wont be needing this where I’m heading will I, Sherlock?_

Tears filled his eyes as he shook his head and recalled hearing Sherlock screaming his name, begging him not to jump. 

_“JOHN WAIT...PLEASE!”_

The last thing John remembered was feeling long arms wrap around his waist and pulling away from death’s grasp.

He fell back onto the rooftop ground with Sherlock nearly on top of him, breathing heavily and holding John down as if at any moment John would stand back up and try to jump again.

The last thing John saw was Sherlock’s face, swollen red eyes pleading and tears running down his slender cheeks, “John...”

“John, please talk to me.”

“How?” John’s voice was stiff, barely audible.

“What do you mean, How?”

“How did you do it?”

“Do what?”

“GOD DAMNIT SHERLOCK! You know what I mean! How did you survive? I saw you jump off that building. I saw your body on the ground. I felt your pulse. You, you were dead..” 

John was stuttering. The feeling of relief, fear, pain, and anger filled his heart and traveled through his veins to every capillary, making his hands shake and stomach clench.

Sherlock surprisingly kept himself composed, yet little did John know, he was just as broken as the army doctor was.

He knew he would never forgive himself for what he did to John and the rest of the people (though there were not many) that he had influenced in his life. 

Pretending to be dead, staying hidden from the entire world, for three years took its toll on him. Not only did it make him realize how beautiful life really is, but it also made him realize who he really wanted to spend the rest of his life with. 

He realized that he wanted nothing more then to spend it with John Watson.

Sherlock had come to the realization long ago that John probably hates him and wants nothing more than push him off St. Barts himself... but then again, Sherlock had found John in quite a destitute state earlier that day.

The image of seeing John standing on the ledge where Sherlock had stood only a few years prior made his heart drop onto the messy living room floor.

“I had no idea you would be so affected.”

That was all that Sherlock could say. It was a lie, of course. He knew how John felt... a year after his “death” he gotten in touch with his brother Mycroft and had asked him for frequent updates about John’s wellbeing. 

The news was never good. Mycroft threatened him a thousand times saying that if he didn’t inform John of his whereabouts then Mycroft would himself. 

_“Sherlock, he’s not doing well. It’s been over two years now and the man has just started making public appearances again. He obviously can’t handle living without you. You might as well just tell him what you’re doing...”_

_Sherlock’s throat tightened at the news, but he knew he could not tell John that he was a live. John’s life depended on it and Mycroft should have known that._

_“You don’t understand, brother. If I tell him what I’m doing then my cover will eventually be blown and everyone that has any significance in my life, including John, will die. That includes you too, Mycroft.”_

_Mycroft puffed, “Ha! I’d like to see **them** try...”_

_Before Sherlock could make a response, the older brother continued, “I’m a little surprised at you, Sherlock. I expected more of a fight coming from you... ah well. You’re going to have to stop playing witness protection someday little brother. The longer you wait the harder it will be to come back to life.”_

Sherlock blinked away his thoughts and found himself back in the living room of 221B, only instead of looking at a hurt friend, he was staring into the eyes of a now furious John.

“You didn’t realize how much it would affect me? Sherlock, how could you even? ...You know what? Maybe I was right, maybe you are a machine. After all these years Sherlock...” John was standing up now, pacing the living room in a frenzy. John could feel his eyes start to water again.

Sherlock stood up with him and gave the man some space. He knew he had a lot of explaining to do and he hoped that John would let him do so before John did something drastic.

“I stood at your grave almost every day for two years. I decorated it for every holiday. I fucking spent the night by your headstone the first night after you were buried. Don’t tell me that you didn’t realize this would affect me!” John yelled. He knew he sounded extremely desperate... and probably from an outsiders point of view, a bit obsessive, but in all honesty, he didn’t care. Sherlock needed to hear it. He needed to hear everything.

After hearing John’s confession, Sherlock grabbed the soldiers shoulder, making sure not to put too much pressure on his battle scar. He studied the shorter man in front of him, watching a single tear fall from John’s eye. He felt his own head grow heavy, his own emotions taking hold of him.

They stood their in silence for awhile, Sherlocks hand resting on John's shoulder.

Finally, Sherlock took a deep breath as he recalled the words he heard John say at the cemetery years ago when they both went to visit his grave on the same afternoon.

“I was so alone and I owe you so much,” Sherlock said, barely whispering. 

John looked up at him, completely bewildered.

“You were there. At the cemetery. You heard me?” John asked, already knowing the answer.

Sherlock nodded, “You also told me that I am the most human being that you have ever know. Not a _machine_.”

John sighed slowly as the realization sank in, “So you heard everything. I see...”

Before Sherlock could even register what was happening, he felt a sharp fist smash into his left cheek with a swiftness and strength that only an army man could pull off. He felt his nose crack and immediately tasted blood in his mouth as he fell backward, the computer desk being the only thing to catch his fall.

Sherlock could hear John breathing heavily in front of him, shaking his fist out from the bone on bone contact. He looked just as shocked as Sherlock was.

John recovered quickly, acting as if he hadn’t just punched his flatmate in the face, potentially breaking his nose. “Would you like a cup of tea?” John asked as he went to turn toward the kitchen.

Sherlock was holding his face, head still pounding from the impact. He wasn’t angry. He knew he deserved it.

“Perhaps I should leave for a little while and give you some time to...” Sherlock went to say. He was immediately interrupted.

John turned around, looking back at Sherlock. Sherlock noticed John shaking and immediately regretted opening his mouth.

“No, you are not leaving me again for another three years, Sherlock. Not until you at least explain to me what the hell is going on.”

Sherlock nodded understandingly. John stared at him for over a minute before retreating into the kitchen to make them a cuppa.

He grabbed two coffee mugs, hands trembling, and set the coffee maker to two cups.

~***~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed!  
> Comments/kudos are always welcome!
> 
> I'll post a new chapter by the end of the week yoo.


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